


Fresh Hell

by fightlikeagirl



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Abuse, Forced Feminization, Humiliation, M/M, Voyeurism, Walrider!Miles Upshur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 21:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6488089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightlikeagirl/pseuds/fightlikeagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles helps Eddie track down a runaway bride, and a marriage is consummated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fresh Hell

**Author's Note:**

> yikes what can i say about this. it is awful, thoroughly non-consensual porn. sorry everyone.

Eddie is still as Miles rests light fingers against his jaw, fascinated despite himself, Miles knows. He doesn’t move, just waits, as Miles draws his fingers down, along his throat, before tracing his (left) index finger over his lips.

“I think we could be of mutual benefit to each other,” the Walrider purrs, and Eddie’s grin is sharp.

 

 

 

Waylon wakes slumped up against an altar in a white wedding dress, his hands bound in front of him.

It’s remarkable how fast the human mind is to clear itself when faced with something thrown up out of its worst nightmares. Waylon shoots upright, struggling to catch his balance, and winds up tumbling over, caught in the skirts of his dress. He struggles to his knees again, trying to assess the room, to work out where he was—

“ _No_ ,” a voice says suddenly from behind him, and then there’s inhumanly strong arms lifting him and bending him over the altar, a heavy hand on his neck holding him still.

“You’re awake,” a different voice says, this one eager, nearly panting with excitement. Waylon had known whose territory he’d woken up in from the start—the dress had been enough—but hearing the voice confirms it with a sickening sinking. “You slept for so long, darling, I was afraid—but it’s alright now. We’re together now.”

“This is your runaway bride?” The first voice sounds casual, bored, but there’s an undertone of amusement in it. “Kind of a scrawny, nerdy little thing.”

Eddie ignores him. “I forgive you,” he says, and Waylon can hear him moving closer. “I would be justified in anger, but I forgive you, because that’s what you do for true love.”

He’s close enough that Waylon can practically feel him, the fingers itching for him.

“Back off,” the other voice orders, and Eddie makes a sound like a frustrated snarl. “You’ll get your turn.”

Waylon really, really doesn’t want to know what that means.

The hand on his neck doesn’t let up, but it loosens slightly, as his face is turned to the side. Then there’s a face bending down to look at him, features impassive, and oh God, his eyes. They’re _black_ , not the dark red of burst blood vessels, but black, filling them like ink except for the gold ring of his irises.

“Hi, Waylon,” it says. “You remember me?”

It’s changed, changed so much, the clothes spattered with gore, the features drawn into a new expression, but Waylon recognizes the mess of dark hair, the sharp jawline, from the journalistic sites he’d found Miles Upshur in.

Waylon sucks in a breath, hard and sharp and painful. “Upshur,” he says, his voice cracking.

The thing— _Miles_ —smiles. There’s a black miasma surrounding him, retreating and expanding, reaching out little tendrils and letting out clouds, occasionally crackling like static. “That’s right,” he says. “You remember.”

“I’m sorry,” Waylon chokes, “I’m so sorry— _God_ —I’m so sorry.”

“You’re _sorry_ ,” Miles repeats. “Wow. Going for something real original there, aren’t you?”

“Please,” Waylon says, “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to, is that it?” Miles says, and the grip on his neck tightens. “Guess we really are sticking with the classics here.”

“I’m sorry,” Waylon pleads again, but Miles doesn’t look at him, shifting so that Waylon can’t see him.

“Not yet you’re not,” he says, and and then there’s something slicing through fabric, and cool air brushes against his skin.

Eddie lets out a choked, desperate little sound and Miles pauses with the knife. He draws the fabric apart to run his fingers down the few inches of Waylon’s back he’s exposed, humming slightly.

“You do have soft skin,” he says, and Eddie says, “ _please_.”

Waylon can feel Miles twist around beside him. “Come here then,” he says, and oh God Waylon can feel a large hand being guided down to his back, to settle there, thumb gently stroking over his spine.

“ _Darling_ ,” Eddie says, his voice reverent, and Waylon sobs.

The sound of Miles’s amusement is awful, light and carefree. God, what _happened_ to him down here, what made him this creature of oily darkness, who commands Eddie Gluskin?

“Let me, please,” Eddie says, nearly begging, and then the knife is back, finishing its path down the back of the dress until the material falls off Waylon entirely. It leaves him shivering, naked, bent over and vulnerable, and he burns under the heat of Eddie’s gaze.

“So beautiful,” he says, his voice trembling. “I searched for you, my love, I looked for you everywhere,” and his hand draws slowly down the length of Waylon’s back, down the curve his spine makes where he’s bent over, shaking. Takes the time to trace over where his vertebrae make mountains before cupping his buttocks, and forced down over the altar as he is, he feels nothing so much like he’s being examined by the patient hands of a doctor, sick reversals.

“You’re so lovely. Such delicate skin—these light bones—and to think you’ve been saving yourself for me all this time. You were meant to be savored.”

Waylon’s gasping by now, little, shallow breaths of air, wet sounds. It would almost have been preferable, he thinks, to have been crushed by the elevator, broken his neck in the half a dozen different falls he’s taken, been ripped apart by Walker. He’s being taken to pieces now, just as efficiently as those hands full of rage would have done.

Eddie spreads his cheeks, pressing a finger in to trace around the pucker of his hole, his breathing gone sharp and quick now, and Waylon’s face burns with shame. Someone kicks his legs apart—Miles, he thinks, but he can’t be sure.

“Please,” Waylon begs, “please, don’t,” and Miles bends down again to look at him, face close enough for Waylon to feel his breath, hot and raw against his face.

“You belong to me now,” Miles says softly, quiet enough that Eddie doesn’t hear, lost as he is in continuing his exploration of Waylon’s hips and thighs. “Your life is mine, Waylon. And you have a long debt to repay.” His fingers rest against Waylon’s jaw, stroking lightly, brushing his lips. He kisses Waylon, and it’s slick, something cool and dark pouring into Waylon’s mouth when Miles tugs his lips open. He gags and chokes, spitting up something black when Miles pulls away.

Eddie’s probing fingers go deeper between his legs, then, brushing against his balls, and Waylon thrashes, screaming and pleading, please, God, he doesn’t want to lose that, fighting enough that it takes Miles and Eddie both to subdue him once he breaks free of the rope tying his hands together, Eddie folding himself over Waylon’s back, Miles pressing his face into the altar with a thumb tight against his windpipe and a grip on his wrists like iron.

“Darling,” Eddie says, “darling, please, I don’t want to have to hurt you.” His voice is gentle and pleading, but his weight is heavy against Waylon’s back, his erection clear through his slacks, and Waylon would still be screaming if he had the breath. “Please behave, I’m your _husband_ , this is my _right_.”

Miles snorts. Waylon’s not sure what’s worse, Eddie’s delusional tenderness or Miles’s cruel amusement.

Eddie touches his scrotum again, gingerly, his distaste clear. “This will have to go, though,” he says, and Miles speaks up, unexpectedly.

“No.”

Eddie’s surprised, Waylon can tell, and a little thrown off.

“No?” he says. “But—”

“I like him better like this.”

“But,” Eddie says again, his grip tight on Waylon’s elbows, “but—it’s _vulgar_ , it’s wrong.”

“So are we,” Miles says. “You think there’s anything right about either of us? Leave if you want, if you can’t deal with your _darling’s_ cock. I don’t want you bleeding him out. I want him awake, I want him, ah,” he pauses, licking his lips and staring down at Waylon, whose eyes have gone wide with terror, “ _responsive._ ”

God, fuck, fuck, he’s going to throw up.

“Miles,” he croaks, “Miles, please, you’re not like this, you’re not like them, don’t do this—”

Miles shoves three fingers in Waylon’s mouth, effectively gagging him, making him choke.

“You don’t know what I’m like.” His voice is light and pleasant. “You don’t know me. You didn’t know me before, and you certainly don’t know me now. And if you bite, you’ll regret it. Be grateful, I’ve just done you a favor.” He turns back to Eddie, fingers still in Waylon’s mouth. “Are you going to fuck him or not? I’ll do it if you’re not going to.”

“No,” Eddie says, pressing up against Waylon even closer—God, he can feel how hard Eddie is, rubbing and thrusting himself almost uncontrollably against Waylon, he wants to die, “no, she’s mine. My darling, my sweet girl.”

Waylon starts trembling worse than ever, and Eddie makes a pleased sound.

“You’re excited,” he says, “I knew you wanted this, you just wanted to be a _tease_ ,” the last word a hushed breath as one gloved hand comes back between his thighs, his other arm across Waylon’s back holding him down. A finger strokes against his perineum, and Waylon squirms, drooling around the hand in his mouth while Miles laughs.

“You like me touching you down here?” Eddie says, and he presses harder. “You do, I can feel it. Dirty girl, I knew you were just waiting for this.”

“No,” he tries to moan around Miles’s fingers, and Miles pulls them out, dragging the saliva down his chin.

“Hmm,” he says, examining his hand, and then he moves away from Waylon, reaching for Eddie. The hand between his legs disappears, pulled away, and Waylon is granted a temporary reprieve to catch his breath. There’s a wet sound above him, a sucking, licking sound, and he tries not to imagine it but the images come anyway, Miles taking Eddie’s fingers into his mouth, tongue pressing up the underside of his index finger, the awful blackness flowing out of his mouth. He can imagine the look on Miles’s face, too, when the fingers are released with a slick pop, eyes coy, mouth turned up as he steps back.

“See the things I do for you?” Miles says, idly tracing the shell of Waylon’s ear.

A finger nudges at his hole, traces the rim, before pushing in inexorably, first knuckle and then second. It’s slicker than it might have been, but it’s fast enough that it still _hurts_ , and he cries out. He’s given hardly a moment to adjust before a second finger starts working its way in. Eddie’s fingers are big, he’s too excited to be gentle, and Waylon’s sobbing openly now.

“That’s it,” Miles says, and he leans forward with his elbows on the altar beside Waylon to watch his face hungrily. “Keeping making those sounds. This is how you pay me back.”

“I know it hurts, darling,” Eddie says. “There are some things women were made to suffer, I’m afraid. I wish I could make it easier for you—but you must make some sacrifices. For us. Just think of how happy you’ll make me, and try to enjoy the anticipation.” His fingers curl and uncurl, reach deep, and _oh God—_

“There it is,” he says as Waylon makes a high-pitched sound, involuntary and wrenched out of his throat, and Eddie presses down on it again and again.

“No, no, no,” he wails, because he can take the pain, but it’s the pleasure that’s going to kill him.

Miles grins wide with satisfaction, his teeth standing out white against the black that leaks out of his mouth. “Keep going,” he says, and Eddie stretches his fingers, spreads Waylon open while he cries.

“This feels good to you,” Eddie tells him, three fingers in him now. “You’re shaking, so I know you like it.”

It’s frightening how quickly he switches between the fifties gentleman, all graceful courtesies, and the overgrown child, too big to be told what to do, letting his id run rampant on the world. Like parts of his mind are trapped in different stages of development. There’s trauma in Eddie’s childhood, Waylon knows, but the extent of it is still a mystery to him. He’d feel better if it stayed that way.

“He likes it,” Miles says, “don’t you, Waylon?”

Waylon shuts his eyes in response, like maybe if he just pulls himself tight enough into himself he can block everything out: Eddie panting against his skin, the fingers working him apart, Miles’s black and gold eyes.

“Stop that.”

Nails dig into the back of his neck, hard, and his eyes fly open. The hand relaxes again.

“Look at me,” Miles says. “I want to see what he does to you.”

It takes tremendous effort to bring his eyes up to meet Miles’s, even more to keep them there. Miles pets his hair in reward, the mocking affection difficult to bear.

“Good girl,” he says, and Waylon _burns_ , shame and desperation and self-hatred. The names are even worse coming from Miles. He knows what Eddie’s delusions are; Miles just wants to make him hurt.

Eddie’s fingers still and withdraw, and Waylon savors the few seconds he has of relief, of having nothing of Eddie’s inside him before there’s a thick cock pushing at his entrance.

“I’m going to make love to you now,” he says, his voice full of ardor. “You must have imagined this ever since you were a little girl—your wedding night—I’ll make it everything you dreamed of.”

Waylon bites down on his lip so hard it bleeds, but he doesn’t scream when Eddie pushes into him. He keeps his eyes on Miles even as they water and flood, and Miles moans at that, like Waylon’s tears are the sweetest thing he’s seen. It hurts, it’s too much, but he’s grateful that the pain makes his half-hard cock flag and soften.

Miles has his hand down his jeans, Waylon notices, trying to focus on anything else as Eddie fucks into him, groaning. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or not that Miles is getting off on this: it’s awful, but it makes sense, it’s a human motivation. He doesn’t know what Miles is, but it can’t be fully human.

“Darling,” Eddie gasps against his neck. There’s a single-mindedness to his thrusts, no rhythm, no room for care. His hands guides Waylon’s hips back against him, so big where they fit against the narrowness of his waist. The new angle has Eddie’s cock pressing up against his prostate again, and he does cry out then, prompting another moan from Miles.

“Is he that good?” Miles asks when Waylon makes another high-pitched sound, pathetic even to his own ears. “Maybe I should take a turn in your place.”

_“Stop_ ,” Waylon begs as more mixed pleasure wracks his body, “stop, please, stop, I can’t, _stop_.”

“Hush, darling,” Eddie tells him. “You want to please your husband, don’t you?” He presses a kiss against Waylon’s neck, his tongue sliding against it. “I dreamed of you. Before we met, I dreamed of you. I was in a dark place, they wanted to hurt me—” His voice cracks, a small, frightened sound, before he recovers. “But you, _oh_ , darling, you were there.” He pulls Waylon’s hips against him hard. “Did you dream of me?”

It’s like spikes—he knows what being stabbed feels like now, and this is like being stabbed, but again and again and again, and Blaire’s blade had never felt so good when it sank into his side.

“You see why I didn’t want him cutting you up?” Miles says, leaning languidly against the altar while his other hand works at his cock. “I want you feeling all of this. I’m going to watch your face when he makes you come. I want to see what you look like when he comes inside you. And don’t you dare look away.”

Distantly, Waylon wonders why Eddie doesn’t object to Miles’s language, when he’d been so concerned with vulgarity from his brides. Miles is crude all over, and Waylon gets the feeling none of that is Mount Massive’s influence.

But Eddie’s lost enough in—in making love to him, and he supposes Miles’s presence is just as easy to erase from the reality he’s constructed as Waylon’s dick is. God, he—God.

Eddie’s strong hands wander up and down his sides while he thrusts, stroke over his stomach—Waylon knows he’s imagining it swelling, full of his seed, full of his child—cup his pectoral muscles to play with them and stroke them like they’re breasts. Pants heavily, calls him his beautiful girl. It sends something like an electric current through him when Eddie pinches one of his nipples, rolling it between his fingers while Waylon whimpers and writhes. He does the same to the other when he sees Waylon’s reaction, touching and touching. The attention Eddie pays to his body—it would be easier if he was just being used, but Eddie feels a need to touch him everywhere: with his mouth, licking and kissing and sucking wherever he can, with his hands, all over, carefully avoiding where his cock is curving up towards his stomach, pre-come smeared over the head.

Miles strokes a hand through Waylon’s hair, the one he’d hand down his jeans, carding through it and scratching gently at his scalp. The kind of touch that’s meant to soothe, to praise. “There’s a good girl,” he says. “Taking that dick so well—I bet you’re all kinds of warm and tight. I’d have fucked you, back in the real world, I’d have let you fuck me. Have had you sitting on my cock, squirming just like you are now.” His hand tightens in Waylon’s hair for a moment, like the idea is just that compelling. “Well, you’ll look pretty enough sitting on Gluskin’s lap.”

He’s so hard right now, hard and appalled at himself, but all of it, all of their touches, Miles and Eddie both, feel so good, awful and good, his skin so much more sensitive than it should be. Waylon’s always been sensitive, but he wonders—he doesn’t know what the consequences of his brief exposure to the Morphogenic Engine were, and he, he doesn’t want to know. Either way, he’s a fucked up mess of a person.

A thumb on his bottom lip eases his mouth open, slipping inside just a little. Miles holds his mouth open like that before he fits his own against Waylon’s, his kiss wet and hard. His tongue presses in to explore and desecrate and Waylon receives it passively. They can make him enjoy this, but they can’t make him want it, and they can’t make him kiss Miles back.

They can’t make him kiss Miles back, but he does it anyway, tasting the darkness on his lips and tongue, and Miles makes a noise of triumph.

“You’re not a man, Waylon,” he says, breath against Waylon’s face. “You’re not a person, not really. Look at you, you know what you look like right now? Falling apart like this. You’ve got no _spine_ , Waylon, no blood in you.”

Miles talks _so fucking much_ , he could probably go limp and let this happen, even block out Eddie’s whispered adulations, but Miles’s voice is hot poison, inflaming his veins, giving him fever.

“There’s nothing heroic about sending an email.” Black fluid leaks from his nose, smearing down over his lips and down his chin. “Your actions have _consequences_. You wanna see?”

He doesn’t want to see, but Miles shows him the stumps of his fingers anyway, still raw.

“Courtesy of Dr. Trager. Maybe you met him.” He tilts Waylon’s head up painfully until he can see the holes in Miles’s chest where bullets ripped through flesh. “These are from Wernicke. Too old and frail to hold the gun himself, but it doesn’t take much effort to aim a soldier and fire. And then, of course.”

He lets Waylon go and wipes a hand across his own face, pulling it away to stare at the black substance on his fingers. “Billy Hope’s last gift to me. You were just a programmer, maybe you didn’t know what the end goal of all their _experiments_ was.”

Like Christ on the cross, Miles spreads his arms wide and grins wide, so wide, stretching his face with it.

“This is the Walrider. A German nightmare, but they made it real. They made it _alive_ , and it wants what all living things want. It wants to consume, it wants to taste everything it can. It wants to make a meal out of you, baby.”

Above him, Eddie’s words have been mostly reduced to grunts and groaning, heavy panting. The repetitions of darling, _darling_ , sloppy and wet, the _ar_ pulled out as his tongue curls around it, the _g_ a long, open-mouthed sound. He’s thrust into again, again, again, so hard and so deep. Flesh slapping against flesh.

“Miles,” Waylon chokes out. He doesn’t know what he wants to say, especially when every coherent thought gets interrupted by Eddie driving into him. He fucked up, God, he knows he fucked up, that it’s his fault that any of them are here like this, Miles, Eddie, himself.

Mount Massive fucked them all in different ways. It took Miles and Eddie apart and put them back together as monsters.

Waylon, it gutted, strung up, and left as a sacrifice.

“Miles,” he says again, trying to fit the full weight of what he knows he’s done into five letters, wails again, “ _Miles!_ ”

He gets a thumb stroking over his cheek for that, demeaning but gentle, continuing as he starts to whimper from the heat building in his stomach. Biting his lip isn’t enough to keep himself silent at this point as his own noises of pleasure pull themselves from his throat.

“Louder,” Miles instructs.

“No,” Waylon sobs, “no, no, no, no, no, please, _Miles_.”

“You’re close, darling, I can feel it,” Eddie whispers to him, soft like a lover’s caress and his thrusts have gone even more stuttery and erratic.

“ _No,_ ” Waylon cries out once more, the o drawing out into a high scream at the end. He comes all over the altar, his eyes still obediently on Miles, and if he’d thought he’d been out of tears he’d been wrong.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Miles says, sounding breathless. “Oh, I knew—knew that was gonna be worth it, _oh._ ”

He cups both hands around Waylon’s face, tilting it to look up at him. Through the film of tears, Waylon focuses on his face, and the look on it is something close to rapture.

“Perfect,” he says, and holds Waylon in place to watch him until Eddie gives a groan, heavy in its finality, and comes. Eddie’s fingers are as tight on his hips as Miles’s are on his face, two implacable forces pulling him in opposite directions, neither way the one he wants to follow. “Does that feel good? Your husband’s seed inside you?”

What he feels is _filthy_ , he wants to retch, he goes limp against the altar, but Eddie doesn’t drop him like he hopes. Instead he cradles Waylon in his arms and holds him in his lap as he sits, breathing long and slow and sounding enormously satisfied. He feels terribly small in Eddie’s lap, naked in every sense. Curled up, pulled tight against Eddie’s chest, like a not-quite life-sized doll.

“Hold him for me,” Miles says while Eddie nuzzles open-mouthed against Waylon’s neck. “Just like that.”

He isn’t made to look, but he can’t draw his gaze away as Miles jacks himself, standing over them. Eddie strokes his stomach, murmuring little words of affection to him, things Waylon can’t focus on while he watches the pitch crackling of the Walrider stutter and glitch, God, reaching for him. Two monsters make him their plaything, but he’s already been worn down so thin there’s not enough for both of them.

Miles is nearly on top of them now, hunched over and panting, and then: “ _Whistleblower,_ ” he hisses, and his come streaks Waylon’s stomach and chest while Eddie’s arms tighten around him, a reply of possession.

He staggers backwards once he’s finished ensuring that Waylon is thoroughly and completely defiled, dropping into the front pew and laughing.

“Oh, baby,” Miles says, “oh, this— _this_ is what we’ve been waiting for.”


End file.
